


can i make you a coffee (i'll draw it with a heart)

by notcaycepollard



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Skoulson Romfest 2k16, double latte, mention of previous Lincoln/Daisy, yeah whatever it's january there's no time limit for holiday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 03:50:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5770162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skoulson RomFest 2k16 DAY 3 - 20 January - double latte</p>
            </blockquote>





	can i make you a coffee (i'll draw it with a heart)

He buys her an espresso machine for Christmas.

Later, he'll blame it on excessive sentimentality, impulse purchasing, the result of wandering a mall on Christmas Eve while tired and lost and in mourning that he still hasn't properly processed. He didn't mean to buy the team Christmas gifts. They've done gift exchanges before - Secret Santas, usually, and he's pretty sure that's how the team acquired the grumpy cat mug - but they don't tend to buy each other big gifts like this. But it was just- it was  _there_ , in the store, shiny red enamel the same shade as Lola's finish, and he stared at it for a long moment, and then asked the sales assistant if they gift-wrapped.

Plus, it was half-off. It was practically a  _bargain_.

He leaves it in her bunk on Christmas Eve, not wrapped but with a bow stuck to the top of the box, and adds a note:  _for my favorite conspiracy theorist_. Wonders for a second if that's too personal, too unprofessional, and decides he doesn't care either way. He bought her the thing already; a sappy note won't make much difference. (And it's not like Lincoln's around anymore, he thinks before he can stop himself, rolls his eyes at his own transparency.)

When he goes looking, the team are in the common area with a range of seasonally-appropriate drinks that are more or less alcoholic: hot cider, cocoa doctored with peppermint schnapps, Mack's homemade eggnog, and something that Hunter's calling a hot toddy but which Coulson is fairly sure is just straight whisky. Jemma's trying hard to convince them all of the joys of carolling, and although it doesn't seem to be working, the playlist she's got going is nice enough. Coulson actually sits down, accepts a mug of cider and tries to ignore the sideways looks that are flicking between Daisy and Mack and Bobbi.

"...Sir," Mack says after a moment, and Coulson smiles a little.

"Director," he replies, tilts his glass. Mack chuckles, tops up his eggnog.

"Nice try," he says, "but it's hardly a Christmas gift you can sneak by me. That's a job you can keep, sir, with respect."

"Huh," Coulson says with mock regret. "Damn. Bobbi?"

"Nuh-uh," Bobbi tells him emphatically, and Coulson sees Daisy and May share a smirk.

"Damn," he says again, sips his cider, gives them all his blandest expression. "Guess you'll have to tolerate me a bit longer then."

"I guess we will," Daisy murmurs, and this time, her smirk's bigger.

 

+

 

The next morning the base is quiet, everyone sleeping late, and Coulson thinks he's the first one up. He pulls on a sweatshirt over his t-shirt and pajama pants, because it's  _Christmas_ , and if the team can't handle seeing the Director in his jammies on Christmas morning they should have ousted him last night when they had the chance. He pads down to the kitchen, thinking maybe he'll surprise them all with pancakes, and pauses in the doorway when he realizes Daisy's already up too, sitting at the kitchen table cradling a half-empty mug in her hands and looking very thoughtfully at a shiny red espresso machine.

"Morning, Coulson," she says, not looking up, and he jumps.

"How'd you-"

"Vibrations," she tells him. "It's just like learning the sound of someone's footsteps."

"Huh," Coulson says, comes into the kitchen and pulls a container of flour from the pantry. "How long have you been keeping that trick under your hat?"

"Pretty much since it happened," Daisy says lightly. "Figured I'd let you in on some of my secrets. As a Christmas gift, and all."

"Oh," Coulson says. "Well. Thanks. Happy Christmas."

"Mmm," Daisy murmurs, sips her coffee. " _Someone_ left me a surprise present."

"That's nice of them," Coulson says neutrally, cracks eggs into a bowl and begins to whisk up pancake batter. His prosthetic behaves; the egg doesn't even go anywhere besides the bowl. It's a Christmas miracle.

"It is, isn't it?" Daisy says. " _Nice_. Can I make you a coffee?"

"Why not," Coulson shrugs. "Double latte?"

"Is there any other kind?" Daisy asks, falls quiet as she begins to pull the shot of espresso and froth the milk. Coulson sets the batter in the fridge to rest, leans against the kitchen counter and waits in companionable silence. Daisy's still in her pajamas too, the soft sweater that he remembers her wearing more often a year or two ago, and all of a sudden he misses the way her braid used to fall loose and messy over one shoulder.

She finishes making the cup, stands and brings it over to him, and when she holds it out, Coulson sees she's drawn a perfect heart in the foam. His own heart beats a little faster, and he covers it by taking the cup, sipping slowly.

"You could get a job at Starbucks," he jokes. "If we ever go out of business."

"Good to know I've got a back-up plan," Daisy teases, watches him drink. "It's good?"

"Extremely," Coulson agrees, and Daisy waits a moment, takes the cup back from him and sips it herself.

"Yeah," she says. "It is good." She's got a smudge of milk foam on her lip, and her eyes are soft, and Coulson clears his throat, looks away, looks back. Daisy takes another mouthful, reaches around him to set it down on the counter, and he realizes she's got him cornered. He feels pinned in place, even though she's not touching; he can feel her body heat, can smell her shampoo. It would be  _so easy_ to touch. He holds himself back, waits a beat.

"I'm your favorite conspiracy theorist," Daisy says playfully, knowingly, and Coulson pauses.

"You're the only conspiracy theorist I know," he deflects. Daisy just steps in closer.

"Not true," she says, "we work with Hunter. And Fitz."

"You got me," Coulson murmurs, swallows, looks down at the way she's playing with the hem of his sweater. "Definitely my favorite, of the three of you."

"Just out of the three of us?" Daisy whispers, and Coulson can't help it, swallows again.

"No," he admits. "You're just my favorite. In pretty much all the ways."

"I know," Daisy says, puts her hands on his hips and presses up against him, leans in to whisper in his ear. "Do you want to know another one of my party tricks, Phil?" He can't even speak, just nods, and Daisy laughs very softly, her breath warm against the side of his neck. "I can't just tell who's in the room," she murmurs. "I can tell more than that. Moods. Attraction."

"You-" he says, startled, and Daisy deliberately brushes her lips light as air across his jaw, runs her hands under the hem of his sweater, his t-shirt and drags them slowly up the bare skin of his ribs.

"I've been your favorite for a long time, right?" she asks, and Coulson closes his eyes, nods.

"Yes," he says. "Yes."

"Good," Daisy replies, and then her mouth is on his, and she's kissing him as if she's wanted to for a long time too, pushing him into the bench and licking into his mouth until he's gasping with it. He catches up, touches his fingers a little tentatively to the nape of her neck, and Daisy moans, quiet at first and then louder when he grabs her hair, pulls her head to the side, traces kisses down the curve of her throat.

"You know," he manages, "I was going to make pancakes, but the rest of the team are still asleep, we could..."

" _Yes_ ," Daisy says immediately. "I'm pretty sure I know where you're going with that, and if the answer is 'my bunk', then yes, Coulson, yes."

"I don't know about  _your_ bunk," he teases. "I'm pretty sure mine is bigger."

"We don't have levels," Daisy grouses, "why is yours bigger," but she's kissing him as she says it, touches his face tenderly. "Can we sleep in, after?"

"Yeah," Coulson says, very magnanimous. "It's Christmas morning, after all."

"And then more double lattes?" she asks hopefully, and he smirks.

"Sure," he says. "Someone nice bought you your own machine, after all."

"Yeah," Daisy agrees. "It's almost like they love me, or something," and it should make Coulson's breath catch or his heart skip or something of that sort, but hearing Daisy say it, it just feels  _right_.


End file.
